


Fernando and Jarno Live in Parallel Universes

by prompt_fills



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, M/M, Parallel Universes, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1769053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prompt_fills/pseuds/prompt_fills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fernando's house starts acting weird. Maybe it's haunted or maybe it's just Fernando going crazy, but the new flatmate begins to grow on Fernando anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fernando and Jarno Live in Parallel Universes

Monday morning starts with Fernando’s tea pot gone missing. Fernando is absolutely certain he put it onto the kitchen counter and he is even more certain that he didn’t make himself _coffee_.

He searches his kitchen twice – but he’d run out of coffee a week ago and couldn’t be half-arsed to go shopping for a new one. There isn’t a grain of coffee in the house. And yet, a steaming mug is sitting on his kitchen table, filled with coffee he doesn’t even like.

Fernando has lived through a lot of shitty Mondays and so at first he doesn’t dwell on the events.

Over the course of the following week, though, more and more things appear and disappear in his house. A pencil he’d never seen before lying casually next to yesterday’s newspapers. An odd shopping list on the table. On Thursday morning he finds someone’s car keys – definitely not his – tossed on the floor in the entrance hall. He picks them up and brings them into the living room, placing them onto the coffee table. When he gets back home from work, they’re not there. Just like that.

Friday evening, he prepares himself dinner. It takes a lot of time and nerves to create something only slightly burnt but still mostly edible. And when he lays the table in the dining room and returns to the kitchen minutes later, there is no trace of his food. Except for the dirty dishes that appear in the sink hours later. Fernando is furious.

At the end of the weekend, Fernando is ready to admit he’s gone crazy. He tries to keep a very precise track of time, writing down brief notes of what he’s doing every single minute – but he gives up after midday, when he gets up to go to the bathroom and finds a brand new painting hung in the hallway.

It’s a lovely painting of his garden. Even the damned bonsai in the big black pot he placed on the steps to the terrace last month is there, captured with a stunning accuracy.

Fernando is sure as hell that he has no artistic ambitions; he couldn’t draw an apple had his life depended on it.

The painting hangs in the hallway, mocking him.

He sits down in his favourite armchair and stares out of the window for long hours, trying to come to terms with his mental instability.

He makes himself a tea; the scent of lemon balm lingers in the air, soothingly familiar. That is, until an odd stain forms on the curtains right in front of his eyes. He shrieks bloody murder – but nothing changes.

He moves his hand over his racing heart that threatens to leap out of his ribcage. He counts backwards from hundred. And when his hands stop shaking, he gathers his courage, enters the kitchen, wets a towel and cleans most of the mess. It doesn’t vanish completely so he takes it off and shoves it into the wash machine because he cannot stand the sight of it. The window looks naked without it.

After that, he starts paying attention to every single change that happens to his house – the chair moves an inch to the right to where he left it. His bookshelf rearranges itself alphabetically on Tuesday. And the kitchen is being wiped clean every third day – he doesn’t complain about that, obviously.

A week rolls into another. He learns to think about his... _condition_ as having an imaginary flatmate. An imaginary flatmate that can move objects. He desperately tries not to think of about poltergeists. It’s definitely a male flatmate, judging from the aftershave that one morning just pops into the cabinet above the basin in the bathroom. It smells nice and Fernando uses it, sometimes.

A few times, his shopping appears in the cabinets. Well, not _his_ shopping... but those salted peanut butter cookies are truly delicious and Fernando loves them.

The following Monday, there are no cookies. Instead, there is a sticky note. It reads: _Get your own damned cookies!_

Fernando blinks at it and fights back the urge to laugh. His imagination is being a bit rude today, eh? Well, then so be it. He picks up a pen and scribbles down: _But I ♥ those!!! Haven’t seen them anywhere!_

By the end of the week, there are two packages of the cookies when the shopping decides to present itself and from now on, Fernando always makes sure to take only one.

He wonders is he should tell anyone that he’s gone around the bent. But it feels so harmless. He doesn’t want to take any pills and have this all simply dissolve into nothingness. Begrudgingly, he has to admit that he had grown kind of fond of his imaginary flatmate.

Then comes Sunday morning that makes him reconsider. He is taking a nice long shower. Everything seems normal. In a good mood, he sings a few songs, terribly off-tune. When he gets out, there is a sticky note taped to the mirror. _Have a heart, no more singing. It’s a torture._

It isn’t signed. Fernando crumples the note in his hand and tosses it angrily into the bin. He feels sick to his stomach and chilled to his bones, even though the mirror is still a bit steamed from his shower.

He calls his sister and tells her everything. She laughs at him and calls him a horrible prankster and when he insists, she quietens down and calls him paranoid. By the end of their conversation she keeps insisting he gets a medical help and he wishes he never called her. He doesn’t seek any shrinks. He takes a week off and books himself a nice holiday in the mountains. It’s a very uneventful week.

He comes back home to find his living room rearranged and redecorated. He decides he likes it, even if he has to search for things twice as long because he’s no idea where he – or his invisible flatmate – put them. Well.

One morning he wakes up and, on the calendar in the kitchen, there is a big red circle around the Friday. Fernando searches his brain for anything significant that should happen in July but then he just decides his flatmate is superstitious about Friday 13th.

The thick red pen marker is on the kitchen counter, so he grabs it and circles July 29th. _My birthday_ , he writes down unnecessarily, as though his twisted brain might forget.

Later, an additional note appears under the circled Friday 13th: _My birthday!_ The ‘ _my_ ’ is underlined twice.

On the said Friday, Fernando bakes a birthday cake. It looks more messy than elegant but Fernando knows the taste makes up for it. The cake doesn’t vanish, it just sits in the fridge until Fernando gets fed up, cuts himself a slice and then throws the rest away.

The tea he makes himself, though, that disappears right from underneath his nose.

On _his_ birthday, there is a ‘ _HAPPY BIRTHDAY_!’ card propped up on the kitchen table. The is also a present, neatly wrapped up in a pink paper. It is a book. _The Solitaire Mystery_. Fernando doesn’t try to pronounce the author’s name. It’s probably Finnish. He grins.

He picks up a pen and a paper and writes – he realises he doesn’t know what to write, so he settles for: _Thank you_.

The note is still there hours after, untouched, much like the cake. Fernando groans and tears the paper apart into tiny shreds and sets them on fire in the sink.

No more notes, he promises himself as he washes the ashes away.

It is nearly two months after that fateful Monday when Fernando hears it for the first time.

A male voice – tone pleasantly rich and lively – talking in his living room. Probably on the phone, because God, the voice is loud and it pauses every so often, presumably to listen to the person at the other end of the line. Fernando is shaking all over as he heads there. He finds nobody.

Hearing voices, Fernando decides, is a little too much. He calls his sister and practically invites himself over for a few days.

Those few days are blissfully normal.

There isn’t any noticeable change to his house when he gets back and Fernando is so relieved it’s beyond words. Maybe all he needed was a nice rest. He’d been working hard for the past months and maybe he overdid it.

He misses sharing house with someone else, though.

It takes exactly three days after his return for Fernando to break. He sees a figure, a shadow, a man.

It’s well into the night and yes, he’s tired and nearly asleep in his armchair in front of the table, but the steps make him jerk away from his drowsiness. The fuzziness of his mind is gone the instant he hears the door to his bathroom creek open and then shut close.

He grabs a lamp from the coffee table (it’s the first thing he can get a hold of) and armed, he waits – and waits – but no one comes back out of the bathroom.

_ You can do this _ , he whispers under his breath. _No nervous breakdowns, man up_ , he encourages himself. He carefully advances to the bathroom. He stops dead in his tracks when he spots the streak of light coming out from underneath the door, softly illuminating the floor in front of Fernando.

He feels rather silly, standing in front of the closed door to his own bathroom, listening for any sounds.

With his free hand, he reaches out and knocks on the doors. He winces at how loud the knock sounds.

“I’m coming in!” he calls out before plunging at the door handle, kicking the doors open and madly swaying around with the lamp.

It doesn’t come as a surprise to find the bathroom empty. Fernando searches the room with a sharp gaze, then switches of the light and leans heavily against the doorframe.

His heart is beating in his throat and his hands are shaking. He slides down to the floor and supported by the wall.

He sets the lamp aside. And cracks himself up.

He laughs and laughs like the lunatic he is, until his eyes are tearing up and his vision blurs. He is out of breath, wheezing for air. He eventually falls asleep where he is, leaning against the wall.

In the morning, the world looks less scary. He feels pretty opposed to the idea of telling anyone about his ‘near encounters’ so he sits down to his table and writes all the possibilities, however unlikely, down on the paper.

When he reaches ‘ _abducted by aliens, suffering from a temporary memory loss’_ , which follows right after ‘ _watched too much Dollhouse_ ’, he sighs and covers his face in his hands.

He needs something else to concentrate on. Something else than his fucked up life. So he picks up the nearest book and sits down to read for a few hours.

He happens to grab the book that was his birthday present from the mysterious presence and he briefly considers getting up a choosing something different to read but then he shrugs and starts reading.

He doesn’t get very far – the opening is too hard to process and he gets lost while trying to figure out who is who. But the style looks interesting and the plot sounds promising so he gets to his computer and does a little research to find out more about the author.

He types his name into the Wikipedia first – when Wikipedia claims such an entry doesn’t exist, he tries to google it up. He doesn’t know how many times he tries to type and retype the name. His search brings no results. None at all.

He needs to get out. Get out to on fresh air and breathe, _breathe_. He strolls the city until the shops start closing and there are less and less people on the streets. He pauses in front of a bookshop. He enters and asks for the bloody book. The shop assistant just smiles at him apologetically when the system she uses finds her no match.

He becomes obsessed, trying bookshop after bookshop – and failing everywhere. And then he comes across this old shop that is just about to be closed down for the day. The man – _Bernie_ , an owner of the shop, reads his nametag – looks up at him and his expression clears. “Would you like to come in?”

Fernando is taken aback because he doesn’t expect the offer. “Err, actually, I’m just looking for this one book. It’s called The Solitaire Mystery,” he informs the man.

The man looks up at him, surprised. “Excuse me, sir?”

Fernando nods to himself. “Never mind, it’s just-”

The man is suddenly standing right next to him – he moves faster than one would expect for his age – and he grasps Fernando’s elbow sharply, shaking him a little. “How did you learn about the book?”

“It was a present,” Fernando finds himself answering. The man loosens his iron grip on him and Fernando hastily takes a step back.

“Well, don’t just stand there gaping, get inside,” the man commands, unlocking the safety locks he’d put on the doors before Fernando arrived. Fernando hesitates.

The man shakes off his coat and Fernando’s eyes flicker to his nametag. Bernie reaches out to him again. There is this odd gleam in his eyes and Fernando spinsaround and takes off. Bernie calls something after him – but Fernando isn’t stopping for all the shouting in the world.

Fernando runs all the way back home and he locks himself up in his bedroom and retires to the bed way earlier than he normally would.

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is a bunch of photographs on his night table. For a while he thinks they’ll be black and white, old, ancient. He squints – they aren’t old. They look like they could have been taken yesterday. There is a young girl, maybe six or seven years, and she is sitting on the back terrace of Fernando’s house, slurping her drink and grinning up to the camera. He stares at her face. Fernando has never seen the girl in his life.

He makes a mental note to check for the history if this place. He tries to recall if the guy offering him this house had done something suspicious. He doesn’t think anything about the sell has been fishy. It can’t hurt if he asks around about the previous owners, though.

Fernando sits on his bed, staring at the photographs, mulling it all over.

The front doorbell rings two times then briefly pauses and then continues in two short tones.

He knows that pattern by heart. He smiles, a little surprised. His sister usually calls in advance before dropping by.

“Hey, sis, decided to pay me a visit?” he grins at her, opening the door and drawing her in for a hug.

“Decided to check how crazy you actually are.”

Fernando is half dreading, half praying for the moment when something pops into the existence (or pause to exist only to appear sometime later) so she would see for herself. He hates it when she doesn’t take him seriously.

Nothing happens. Nothing at all. He’s so tempted to tamper with the teapot just to make her _believe_ that it scares him.

He doesn’t do anything stupid. He pretends everything is _normal_ – any hey, when paranormal started to qualify as normal for him? – and she leaves reassured, with a small smile on her lips because her brother isn’t out of his mind.

Before she leaves, she gives him a sweater she knitted herself. It’s a way too long and – more importantly – it’s purple. She giggles as he tries it on and pats his shoulder. “Will keep you warm.”

“Yeah, umm, thanks,” he mutters, giving her a brief hug before seeing her to the door.

He tosses the monstrosity into a chair at the kitchen table the moment the door closes behind her.

It stays there for good three days, untouched, until Fernando finds it neatly flooded on the top of his drawer in his bedroom. He feels like crying.

Everything goes downhill from there. Hearing voices, seeing the figure of a man roaming around the house, discovering new items or old things in the new places – it never stops.

Fernando decides to seek out the man from the bookstore again. It takes him a while to find his way back to the shop and when he finally does, the man isn’t there. Instead of him, there is a young girl behind the counter. She looks up at him from a magazine she’s reading and smiles. She has a pretty smile.

“Hello, what can I do for you?”

He tells her the name of the book he’s been _looking for_. She shakes her head. “That one is sold out. But I can tell dad to order more of them and I can let you know once it’s shipped,” she offers.

Quite inventive variant of _Can I get your number?_ , Fernando muses, forcing his lips to curl into a smile. “I think I’ll just stop by some other day to see for myself.”

“Ah, alright then. Try it after the weekend. You can have a look at his other books in the meantime.” She leans over the counter – granting him a generous view of her boobs squeezed in a small black top – and points to the second aisle to her left. “Over there, that’s all his work we have here. Sophia’s choice sells best but I’ve best enjoyed Through a Glass, Darkly.”

“Oh, thank you,” he says and she follows him with her gaze before he reaches the end of the shop. There are many titles he’d never heard of – then he freezes and takes a closer look at the books. He’s never heard about _any_ of them.

Mesmerized, he reaches out to the first book and pulls it out from the shelf. He flips the pages to the end of the book and reads what is there to know about the author’s life. It’s nothing unusual – where the author grew up, where he studied, when he debuted.

Fernando ends up buying the book. He isn’t as shocked as he ought to be when he learns from Google that the book he picked does not exist, and neither does the author.

He is definitely disappointed, though, when he returns to the shop near the end of the following week – there is a new girl behind the counter but he walks past by her, into the same aisle he’d been last time – and the same shelves are filled by books of John Green. He buys a book called _Paper Towns_ because a) it’s in the same place where he found his book last week and b) it sounds like something his sister might enjoy reading. Books make nice Christmas presents, after all.

He finishes reading the book his mysterious flatmate had given him. He doesn’t understand it. He tries reading the other book but he doesn’t understand it any better. He wishes he’d wrapped up the latter one for the Christmas instead of _Paper Towns_. That way he could at least read some normal book and prove to his sister he’s not the only one insane on this planet.

Next Wednesday, he finds a bookmark in the first book from shop. He opens the book and fails to recognise the pages it marks. The bookmark itself is one of those items he most definitely did not buy.

He remembers his list of the least possible theories and (against his better judgement) writes another note.

_ Are you a ghost? _

Fernando tapes the note to the book and leaves the room to make himself a cup of tea to calm his nerves. The reply is there, waiting for him, when he returns.

_ No. Human, just like you. _

Okay, that’s not creepy at all. There is still enough space under the reply, so he asks: _Do you mean any harm to me?_ He takes a gulp of his tea and grimaces – this one definitely needs some sugar. He watches the note intently for a minute or so and then he pinches the bridge of his nose and gets up to fetch himself three sugars.

The note is gone altogether when he re-enters his living room.

Occasionally, notes with random questions appear somewhere in the house. Fernando answers them all. Well, mostly. Or – he tries to, okay? But sometimes the message would lay there for days without anything happening.

He learns a lot about this... figment of his imagination. Male. Divorced. Lives alone. Likes literature. Enjoys good vine.

Fernando begins to like the man’s character.

The salted peanut butter cookies appear much more regularly. When a bottle of Yellowtail goes missing, all Fernando does is placing a note on the cupboard: _Did you like it?_

_ Too dry _ , dismisses the reply. And Fernando catches himself grinning.

Fernando isn’t grinning when he finds a cat – a cat! – fast asleep on his couch. He approaches the giant creature gingerly. It stirs awake and Fernando lets it sniff at his hand carefully. The cat stretches and yawns – no, it is not cute, too many sharp teeth involved – and stares up at Fernando, blinking slowly. The end of its tail twitches.

Fernando pats the cat and when it doesn’t shy away and actually tries to rub its head against his s hand, Fernando lifts it up to his arm and sits down on the couch, talking softly to the cat.

_ A cat?! What the hell!!! _ He angrily scribbles down on the notice board that appeared in the hallway earlier that week.

_ Sorry, didn’t know it could leap though. _

That doesn’t make much sense to Fernando but an apology is an apology so he sighs and adds ‘cat food’ to his shopping list.

As he passes the board on his way to the bathroom, he notices another sentence.

_ Does it bother you? Is it going to be a problem? _

_ What is her name? _ Fernando writes in reply and that’s how his imaginary flatmate brought an imaginary cat to their house.

Fernando doesn’t see the cat – Ancella – around much often. As likely as not she would be sleeping on the couch or playing in the back garden. Sometimes he picks her up and pats her – she has a soft fur and purrs kindly. Sometimes he finds the couch full of her hairs. Sometimes she sharpens her claws against the young apricot tree he planted in the garden last year. He and the cat can tolerate each other.

Things get even weirder after Ancella. Front door clicking open after Fernando struggled for long minutes to find the key in his bag. Fernando’s favourite herbal tea making an appearance on a particularly stressful day, materializing out of thin air, steaming and delicious. A sandwich waiting for him to grab on his way out of the house when he overslept. (Sometimes, there is an actual breakfast waiting for him even when he has plenty of time.)

He tries to return the favour but it just doesn’t work out; the food refusing to leave its place more often than not.

An unsettling idea occurs to Fernando. He steps in front of the board in the hallway but he doesn’t pick up the marker.

“Can you see me?”

He feels like an idiot, standing alone in his own home, talking to the board.

He has to repeat the question a few times before the marker raises and writes an monosyllabic answer: _No._

“Then how can you open the door for me?!”

_ I can hear you. _

“I can’t hear you.”

_ Yeah, I figured that out. You **never** hear me? _

“Sometimes I hear a voice, it’s usually not clear enough to pick up on a conversation,” Fernando admits.

_ At first, I though you’re a girl. _

“Excuse me?”

_ I mean – the sweater. _

“A gift from my sister,” Fernando huffs, crossing his arms, affronted.

_ Well, it’s not like I mind.  _ The message erases itself shortly after that and a new words appear instead: _My apologies. And no, you’re not crazy._

“Is that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Fernando mutters darkly and goes to sulk into his bedroom.

It’s nearly the end of September when it happens. It’s late in the night, Fernando has been out and returns in good spirits, not quite drunk but pleasantly tipsy. Quietly, he whistles a melody that got stuck in his head.

He shrugs off his coat on the chair in the hallway. He enters his living room, flicks on the lights and sees a man sitting in the armchair, reading newspapers.

Fernando freaks out.

The man stays calm and carefully folds his newspaper, setting them aside. “Hello. You took your time.”

“You?” Fernando squeaks. Then he clears his throat. “Listen this has to stop. Hallucinating is one thing but this is a tad too much.”

“You’re not hallucinating,” the man informs him, cool as a cucumber.

“And what is this, then? Are you from the past? A previous owner slaughtered in the attic?”

“Don’t be melodramatic, please. This house has no attic.”

“You’re from the future, then,” Fernando tries, staggering further away, back into the hallway.

“No, neither the past, nor the future. I’m here. Now.”

Fernando is too drunk to have this conversation. “But you’re here one minute and the other you’re not.”

“Our dimensions are blurring a bit. Not completely but enough for us to flicker in and out.”

Correction – he’s not drunk enough. The man stands up and walks towards the cabinet where Fernando stashes his liquor.

The man looks over his shoulder at Fernando and then he nods to himself and pours them both generous shots. _Are you a mind reader?_ Fernando thinks at him.

But the man just stands there with his arm stretched towards Fernando. Fernando hesitantly comes closer and takes the glass from the man.

“Jarno,” the man says suddenly.

“What?” Fernando blinks at him stupidly, wondering if he’s about to get hit by a curse. Trust his mind to be a wicked and dangerous place.

“My name, we’ve never introduced ourselves.”

“Ah, um, I’m Fernando.”

“Nice to finally see you in person,” Jarno says, tilting his glass towards Fernando in silent toast.

“Wish I could say the same.”

Jarno grins at him. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

Fernando snorts.

“You’ve read the books, right?”

“Yeah. They made no sense.”

“Guess this doesn’t make much sense to you either, then.”

“Naaah,” Fernando drawls in agreement. “You seem to take it pretty well.”

“This house has been in our family for centuries,” Jarno offers and Fernando’s head starts to hurt.

“So the house is haunted.”

“It isn’t. There are just some places that...” Jarno trails off. “Look, I think we should have this conversation in the morning when you’re not freaking out. Try to get some sleep.”

“Right. Good idea. ‘Night.”

“Good night, Fernando. See you in the morning.”

The man is nowhere in the house in the morning. Fernando vowsnever to drink again.

Fernando breaks his vow mere six hours later. And he doesn’t even mind because after a few glasses, everything looks much better, somehow. Even when Ancella, the cat, surges out of nowhere and lands on the couch next to him. He beams at her and scratches behind her ears. Ancella growls in warning when he misses and ends up poking her skull. He tries again – and fails again – and Ancella paws his forearm with her claws. Fernando hisses in surprise. The pain feels real.

The scratches still look real the following morning. The figments of his imagination are just weird. Why can’t they at least be nice?

“It’s been two days and you’re still freaking out,” the man says, carrying a try with breakfast.

“Here we go again,” Fernando groans, but he grabs a fresh toast and takes the cup of tea the man pours for him.

The man eyes him. “I’m starting to think that this time, the house made a mistake.”

There is _something_ in that tone that makes Fernando frown. “What?”

The man – what was his name again? – frowns as well. “You never heard of situations like this?”

Fernando shakes his head. He certainly did not hear about anyone’s imaginary friends making actual breakfast.

“All right. So, let’s be blunt. You know about the dimensions, right?” Fernando does not, but the man goes on, not really asking, “Some places make the dimensions overlap if they find people that are... compatible.”

The way he says the last word makes Fernando’s eyes grow wide. “Oh... OH!” He didn’t realize it was an option. “Is that why I’ve been having troubles accessing your dimension?”

“That’s quite possible. If you really didn’t know about the concept, maybe the house thought you’re not quite ready to meet me.”

“Well, I was positive I was going crazy,” Fernando admits. He’s getting more and more interested in the whole situation but the man looks more and more dejected the longer they talk.

“My family has always been happy in this house and I was so excited when I realized the house has find someone I can meet. But maybe it doesn’t always work out.”

Fernando feels his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn’t want to lose something he’s just found. It feels like the opportunities are only now opening doors for him. The man looks like Fernando is slamming the doors shut to his face. Fernando wants that look to disappear. He gulps, “Why shouldn’t it?” 

The man looks up at him, dubious. “Well, you’re free to move out, of course. And we can both forget about this.”

“I don’t want to forget about this,” Fernando objects. “I love this place and I’ve grown used to you being around,” he starts but then he remembers something else. “Bernie’s bookshop,” he says, “is it like this place, too?”

“Bernie’s? Oh yes, one of the oldest. How did you find it?”

“You tell me. One week it’s perfectly normal and next week, I find things from your dimension instead.”

“I used to be there quite often. Maybe the place tried to let you find me, too?”

Fernando considers that. He considers the whole situation, though he has hard time taking it all in. The man is looking at him, his expression a little worried. Fernando takes in a long breath and locks their gazes. “So, how do you make the dimensions blend in perfectly?”

The man’s eyes drop down to Fernando’s lips and his cheeks flush a little. _Oh_.“I think we should give this a chance,” Fernando says, his tone light. “The house approves.”

“Well, you never hear about the houses being wrong, do you?” The man’s expression clears as he searches Fernando’s face. Fernando tries to look honest. 

“No,” Fernando replies, not adding that he has never heard about them being right, either. It’s worth a shot. Fernando smiles, takes a step closer – and then pauses. Because he needs to know. “What’s your name again?”

The man laughs at that and it’s infectious and Fernando is grinning before he knows it – but deep down, Fernando is serious because he never wants to forget that name.

**Author's Note:**

> Note to self: Stop adding cats to every story. »^.^«


End file.
